


April Foolish

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson's birthday happens to be April 1st, and Sherlock decides to use her party to play an unthinking prank on somebody close to him.  Will he be forgiven?</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Foolish

It was early Spring in London, and the weather had been turning just a bit warmer. The short woman stood in the middle of the sitting room at 221B Baker Street while the world’s only consulting detective walked slowly in a circle around her, making comments under his breath. “Hair is close enough, I suppose. We’ll have to get some brown contact lenses, though. Breasts too large, but we can camouflage that with the proper baggy jumper…”

“Men usually prefer jumpers to emphasize a woman’s breasts, not camouflage them,” she smiled and spoke flirtatiously.

“I’m not a ‘usual’ man, Miss…

  

“Steadmen, Mrs. Holmes. May I call you Sherlock?” She smiled once again.

“On the night of the undertaking, I will expect you to call me by my Christian name, but at all other times, I would prefer a more business like nomenclature, Miss Steadman.” He then sat down in his favorite chair, and motioned for her to take a seat on the couch. “I have provided a biography for you. Please memorize it. My friends are likely to be very curious, and you must be prepared. Your name is Mildred, or Milly, Hardwick, you are a librarian at the British Museum…”

“I know, Mr. Holmes. I have read the bio. I will have it completely committed to memory by next Friday. After all, I am an actress, quite used to memorizing endless lines of dialog…”

“There will be no dialog to memorize. You must live and breathe the character I have created for you! Can you do that, or must I find someone else?”

“Mr. Holmes, really! You’ve read my resume, and my notices. I’m quite good at improvisation.” The woman now pitched her voice a bit lower, a bit more seductively. “But, as I am pretending to be your girlfriend, maybe you would consider a dress rehearsal? Or an undress rehearsal?”

“Not necessary, Miss Steadman. But I do appreciate your rather seductive tone. Perhaps you can use that on the night?”

“Whatever you say.” The woman had now switched to a more business like manner. “You’re paying me an exorbitant amount for a single performance, so I’m at your command!” 

“It will be worth every penny, I think, if your performance is as good as your reviews.” Sherlock then rose from his chair as a sign of dismissal. “Please feel free to contact me with any questions, and I will be in touch as to the time and place, Miss Steadman.”

The actress barely had time to mutter a farewell before the door closed on her attractive derriere.

A few days later, Friday, April first to be exact, John and Mary Watson were putting the final touches on preparations for a surprise party they were throwing for Mrs. Hudson’s seventieth. Martha Watson had always blamed her birth on April Fool’s Day as being responsible for the many unexpected ups and downs of her life. She had started her adult life as an exotic dancer, married a drug lord turned murderer, and would up babysitting the world’s only consulting detective in her upstairs flat. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be co-hosting the affair, but, as usual, aside from finances, he had left all the arrangements to his best friend John, and so, by default, his wife, Mary. They were expecting a fair crowd, including their intimate circle of friends, as well as neighbors from Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson’s current paramour, as well as several of her previous ones, as the all seemed to be on the best of terms. It seems Mrs. H, former exotic dancer, had never really lost her capacity to keep a man happy! Molly Hooper had arrived early to help with the food and seating arrangements. Guests were beginning to arrive, when Molly remarked, “I wonder where Sherlock is?”

“You know him, Molls. Is he senses there are any domestic chores left to be done, you can count on him to avoid the scene,” Mary said with a sigh. “He’ll probably arrive sometime after Mrs. Hudson, and leave earlier!”

“When he agreed to help with the party, I thought he’d be more hands-on, somehow…”

“Sherlock! Not likely!” John let out a brief snort.

“He’s been a bit more sociable since Claire was born, don’t you think? A bit more open?” Molly was referring to the Watson’s six week old daughter. “I mean, I see him all the time, now, in and out of the lab. We have takeaway, we run experiments…”

“Really?” Mary said with a knowing smile, and winked at her husband.

“No, no! Nothing like that! He’s a friend, and he’s been acting more, uh, human, and less…”

“Sherlocky?” John and Mary said, almost in unison. John pulled his wife in for a comic hug, “Maybe our boy is growing up, Mary.”

“Good thing, too,” Mary muttered as she pushed him away. “I was not looking forward to sitting down and having ‘the talk’ with Claire and him at the same time!”

John spoke, with some humor and quite a bit of confusion. “I’m not at all sure what version of ‘the talk” Sherlock would require, love. And I decided long ago that I’d like to keep it that way!”

As it turned out, Mary had been correct. Sherlock did not arrive until song after Mrs. Hudson had been surprised, but his entrance proved to be much more dramatic. For on his arm was an attractive petite woman, who no one had seen before. She had long brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, eyes the color of molten chocolate. She wore a colorful baggy jumper, at least one, and possibly two sizes too big, tailored trousers, and flat shoes. The room filled with a thunderous silence, as Sherlock said, “I thought this was supposed to be a party?” 

John approached the couple, ready to take their outerwear, with Mary at his elbow. “Sherlock, are you going to introduce us?”

“Of course, John!” Sherlock took the small woman’s hand is his own, “John, Mary, I’d like you to meet Mildred Hardwick. Milly, this is John and Mary Watson, our hosts.”

“Milly” shook both of their hands, with Sherlock still clutching her left hand in his own. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you both. I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

“Finally? Just how long have you known our Sherlock, then?” Mary asked.

“Oh, just a couple of months, but it seems so much longer. I hate to think of all the years we’ve wasted, not knowing each other!” The woman then beamed lovingly up at the detective. The couples then separated, Sherlock making the rounds, completely unlike him, and John is search of a stiff drink.

Sherlock Holmes was searching the small crowd, looking for one particular face, until he finally found Molly Hooper making her way around the room, picking up empty glasses, and discarded plates. He smiled in her direction, and made a move to join her, but found that his hand was still attached to the erstwhile “Milly Hardwick”. He returned to his conversation with Greg Lestrade, who had been flirting with his date instead of his own. Sherlock chalked this up to the fact that he had always believed that the man from Scotland Yard had secretly harbored a crush on his pathologist for years, and couldn’t resist making a run at her doppelganger. As he rejoined the conversation, he noticed that John and Mary were having a rather heated discussion in the kitchen.

“Who the hell is she, anyway?” Mary badgered her husband.

“He says he met her at the British Museum. She helps him with his research. Quite the respected librarian, evidently.”

“But what else is she? Is she his, uh, girlfriend?” Mary almost choked on the word.

“Who the bloody hell knows! I asked, and he told me he detests the term. But he hasn’t let go of her hand all evening!” John spoke with more than a bit of concern. “Have you spoken to Molly?”

“What can I say to her? The love of her life turns up with her clone, holding hands…”

“My god, Mary, she’s even closer to Molly than Tom was to Sherlock…” John’s voice drifted off, as if a though was occurring to him. “You don’t think…”

“That’s he’s sending some sort of twisted message? I don’t know, love.” 

“Remember Janine?” John shuddered at the thought of the attractive brunette parading around the flat in Sherlock’s shirt, and little else. “Molly was really angry about him using her like that. I don’t think he’d do something like that again. Pretend a relationship, I mean. But he would…” John Watson made a beeline across the room to his best friend. “Where did you find her, Sherlock? And how much are you paying her? And why?”

“You don’t believe I found her at the British Museum, John?”

“More like some little theater company. Or, and I hope this isn’t true, an escort service.”

“The escort service would have cost far less, John. But probably would have ended in a far different manner…”

“Why, Sherlock? What are you playing at?”

Sherlock brought his companion’s hand up to his lips, and kissed it gently, “The game is up, I’m afraid, Miss Steadman. You performed admirably! I shall send you a bonus.”

The woman smiled up at him, and asked, “Then, may I continue my conversation with this charming man? He seems much more amenable…”

“Lestrade is always amenable, Miss Steadman,” he said with a snicker, not begrudging Greg the copy, at the original was so much better, and he followed John into the privacy of a bedroom.

“Alright, you git, give!” John asked as soon as they had closed the door.

“Relax, John. It was only a bit of a joke. Remember ‘meat dagger’?” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“Everybody remembers Tom, as much as Molly is trying to forget him!” 

“Well, you were the one who pointed out how much he resembled me, physically at least. So, turnabout is fair play, isn’t that what they say?

“Sherlock, I’m going to ask you this just once, and I want an honest answer. Did you do this to hurt or embarrass Molly Hooper?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then, I have to point out that you have probably succeeded admirably at doing both!” At the disbelieving look on his friend’s face, John continued. “Sherlock, Molly was humiliated when people pointed out how closely Tom resembled you. She chose a physical replica of you, subconsciously, because she has always been totally infatuated with you…”

“Surely, not that seriously…”

“Listen, mate, she risked her life, her career, her professional reputation, all because you asked her to. She would do anything for you. She dumped Tom because of you…”

“I never asked her to, John…”

“No, but you should have! And now, here we are, almost over two years later, and the love of her life comes walking in with a virtual clone of herself, not just physically, either. She supposedly helps with your work. She’s an outstanding in her field….”

“You make her sound like a bloody farmer, John!” Sherlock tried to make a small attempt at humor.”

“As I was saying, a respected researcher…” John stopped suddenly, noticing that all the blood seemed to have drained from Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock Holmes sat on the bed with his face in his hands. “It hurt, John. Seeing her so happy with that moron. And he looked so much like me! And that hurt even more. I suppose, on some level, I was trying to get her goat, so to speak. But if you believe she still cares for me, it must have hurt her more than I ever intended.”

“Are you kidding? You really are lousy at this sentiment stuff, aren’t you? You may be the only one in the room, barring Mrs. Hudson’s current and past, or future, boyfriends, and the Baker Street biddies, who does not know how much she cares for you! And you walk in holding hands with a carbon copy of her! You’re the most unpopular man out there, though there’s no surprise in that, is there?”

There was a small knock at the door, and Mary Watson entered. “Sherlock your… er… companion is leaving with Greg. He’s very happy, but his date is not. Thought you should know.”

“I have to talk to Molly!”

“I should think so! But you’re not going to be able to do it here. Mycroft offered to take her home, as she seemed a bit ‘under the weather’.“

“She’s sick?”

“Sick of you, I’d say! She was hurt, and humiliated, and if I wasn’t a retired assassin, operative word here being ‘retired’, I’d show you what I think of your behavior!”

Sherlock fumbled through the pile of coats on the bed until he located his Belstaff, and quickly headed out the door, passing Lestrade and his two companions, one disgruntled, and one supremely gruntled, on his way to hail a cab.

“She’s not Molly, you know,” he felt compelled to hurl the remark at the smirking police detective.

“No, but she’ll do in a pinch, mate!” Lestrade responded drunkenly, and pulled both women closer.

By the time Sherlock arrived at Molly’s flat, the pathologist had had a good cry on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft Holmes genuinely like the woman, and was often aghast at his brother’s treatment of her. He had stood by as Sherlock insulted her, manipulated her, and took her for granted on a regular basis, but had never intervened Molly always handled herself with strength and dignity. But the show he put on tonight may well call for some involvement at the highest level. Maybe he should call Mummy? Mycroft was still mulling over this possibility when the black car pulled into a parking space in front of Molly’s building. “Will you be alright, Dr. Hooper? Shall I come in your you?” The rather standoffish man was hoping for a negative answer, but fully prepared to accompany her inside if she needed any additional consolation. To his relief, Molly Hooper composed herself elegantly, thanked him for his consideration, and took her leave. As he watched her climb the steps, Mycroft thought to himself, for perhaps the millionth time, that his brother did not deserve her, but he certainly needed her. He was not surprised that, being the smarter brother, he had arrived at this conclusion first, but couldn’t help but be amazed that it was taking his younger brother so long to make the same deduction.

Sherlock stood staring at the door to Molly’s flat, trying to decide whether to knock, or merely let himself in, as he usually did. He reasoned that if he knocked, he ran the chance that she would refuse to let him in, so he carefully picked the lock and opened the door, to find Molly sitting on her couch with a slice of pizza. She had neglected to change from her party attire, and was still wearing the form fitting blue dress which he had found so alluring on previous occasions. Her eyes were swollen and red, indicating that she had had a rather good cry.

“Is there any more pizza?” he said, by way of opening the conversation.

“It’s in the fridge. You’ll have to warm it in the microwave.” Sherlock took a slice from the box and examined it. It was covered with congealed oils and rather greenish looking sausage. “How old is this?”

“You brought it over last week, remember?” Molly was looking at her heated, and not any more appetizing, version of the formerly edible Italian treat. As she went to take a bit, the slice was snatched from her hand and tossed into the dustbin.

“Good lord, woman, are you suicidal?”

“Not quite yet, Sherlock? Why don’t you tell me about your wedding plans, or something?”

“I have no such plans at the moment, Molly, but that could change.”

Molly rose from her seat in search of her opened bottle of wine. “Didn’t you have enough at the party?” Sherlock asked with concern.

“I certainly had enough, you git. Just not wine!” Molly said as she slugged back half the glass. “Where is Milly? Won’t she be missing you about now?”

“I believe that Graham is keeping her occupied. Or she’s keeping him so.”

Molly looked a bit confused, and quite a bit relieved, as she said, “You could have told me about her, Sherlock. We’re friends.” She looked at him, somewhat hurt. “At least I thought we were. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“April Fool’s?” Sherlock spun his finger in the air, as if making a “whoopee!” gesture.

“You really are a bastard, you know? I wanted to scratch her eyes out!”

“You would have to remove the contact lenses. Her eyes weren’t brown…” Sherlock sighed, and took a step closer. “And that’s nothing compared to the body parts I wanted to destroy on dear old Tim…”

“Tom?”

“Meat dagger! Whatever!” the detective waved his arms in frustration. “Look, Molly. Can we stop this. If you promise not to get engaged to anyone else, I’ll promise not to hire any other women to pose…”

“You hired her, you git! An escort service?!”

“Why does everybody have to go there? She was an actress, for god’s sake!” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Anyway, back to what I was saying, you are not to get engaged to anyone else, understand? That’s final, and non-negotiable. Any wedding plans in the future will be ours!” Molly’s eyes started to tear up again. “You can’t possibly be crying, can you? Tell me what I’ve done now. I’ll fix it, I swear. Just please don’t cry anymore.” Sherlock took her in his arms and held her close. “Please tell me what I can do, Molly?”

“Kiss me?”

“If you insist,” he said in a low, almost growling, voice, just before he proceeded to snog the life out of her. When they reluctantly parted, Sherlock was still holding her close.

“You hug better than you brother, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft? Mycroft hugged you?”

“He hugged me. Get over it. I needed a hug, Sherlock,” the pathologist said with a smile. “He was very kind to me, and comforting.”

“He didn’t mention anything about speaking to Mummy, did her?” Sherlock said, reaching for his mobile to update his brother on the situation before said brother decided to call in the big guns.


End file.
